


Lessons in Drowning

by eddi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Graphic Psychotic Breakdown, Humanstuck, Mental Illness, Sexual Content, Suicide Attempt, Vignette Collection, potentially triggering content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:04:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddi/pseuds/eddi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your dreams consist almost exclusively of drowning when you remember them. Sucking in water and feeling your limbs weighed down until you’re staring up at everyone you care about from below. Usually you’re watching them from behind glass. A freak on display. A fish in the aquarium.<br/>*<br/>A collection of snapshots starring Sollux Captor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lessons in Drowning

You are the typical byproduct of the American education system. Praised as gifted, talented, and brilliant from a young age until all of your peers were equally gifted, talented, and brilliant. And then average was redefined. Those who were less gifted, less talented, less brilliant than the most were held to an equal standard to those who excelled with ease.

Having an IQ in the 97th percentile isn’t impressive when you’re sitting amongst members of Mensa.

From a young age we are taught that anything less than perfect is unacceptable. You are only worth your grade point average and test scores. Failure is not an option. If it’s not top marks, it’s nothing. If you aren’t keeping up, you don’t belong. If you don’t get accepted to at least one state university, you won’t go anywhere in your life.

There is always someone better than you. More gifted, talented, and brilliant.

So why try?

*

You work tech support for a major mobile carrier. Three days a week. Nine to five. Breaks at eleven, one, and three. You have a disgust for odd numbers. And working customer service.

The wallpaper is the color of cloudy piss. The carpets haven’t been cleaned since 1989. The main hallway smells like a wet girl’s armpit hair at two-thirty.

That one still puzzles you.

Every day after punching out, you sit in your car and think about calling her. She would probably answer if you did. Ask about your day. Act as though everything is exactly the same. You would probably make a joke about seeing her at seven for dinner at your place. She would either laugh and politely decline, or (the less likely option) she would laugh and say it’s a date. Even though it isn’t actually a date. You and she as an item are history, even if you both might be able to continue speaking civilly as very close friends.

Sometimes on the drive home you try to picture what she could be doing. If she’s seeing anyone else. If she still jerks off in the middle of the afternoon, but with someone else’s presence in her stream of thought.

She has not once expressed the willingness to get back together, but at this point you’ve come to terms with it.

(Except when it’s late at night and you think about what she would do with your remains if you suddenly dropped dead.)

You drop your keys on the same table. Open the fridge and stare for the same length of time. Close it after remembering a human being can’t live off of mayonnaise and ketchup.

Even after eight hours of working on a computer, you still sit at your desktop and weed through your messages. Status updates. Shared images. The latest news.

No messages from her today. It’s come to be expected. She’s leading a very busy life. You order dinner with a few key presses and mouse clicks. The same bullshit takeout as every night. Hit up a few people on the latest fad hookup site. Cyber for the twenty minutes it takes for the food to arrive. Answer the door trying to look tired so the delivery boy doesn’t judge your bachelorhood too hard.

He says you look like shit, but more nicely.

You say that you know. He’s been at your house enough times, he should know this is just your face.

He gives a nervous laugh, because you said that out loud. Asks if you’re alright.

You don’t know what you manage to say back, but he looks sad.

You close the door.

You open it again because you forgot to take the food.

He smiles and hands the bag over. Says he hopes you feel better soon.

You look from his lips to his crotch then his eyes and shut the door again.

*

Butterflies freak you out. People love them, and you just don’t understand the hype. Sure, they’re pleasing to the eye. Humans have become accustomed to bright colors being attributed to positivity and delight, rather than poison and danger.

You’re not very partial to insects or arachnids in general, but there’s something about bees. Bumblebees. Honey bees. Stingless bees. They reminds you a lot of people, but at their very core.

Hive mind in human beings is repulsive, but watching a grist of bees do their thing is calming. Hypnotizing. They are driven by instinct to protect the hive. Their purpose in life is clear.

Your dad found beekeeping to be therapeutic. It calmed his tendency to burst at the seams. Reduced the number of times he disappeared without word.

Your family had to rehome your bees when you were nine after the accident. You used to daydream about rescuing them. About finding a cure for your brother and moving back to your old house. Thought if you wished hard enough, your beloved friends would all find their way home.

Those bees are all dead by now.

*

You wake up with your face in the toilet, tasting the chow mein again.

The delivery boy probably thought it best to put you out of your misery.

He might have done the world a service by poisoning you.

Wish he would’ve told you first so you could’ve gotten your affairs in order.

*

You wake up again on your couch, sun beams trying to fight their way past you blinds. You roll over and press your face into the cushion. You need to check what day it is, but you can’t hear yourself think over your migraine. Your ears ring, a high scream to rattle your head further. Somewhere under you, your phone is buzzing. You cover your ears and curl up tight.

This feeling is familiar and you are locked into something unshakeable, akin to déjà vu.

The persistent vibrations grind like gravel inside your forehead. You consider that you were filled with wasps as you slept. It’s the only logical explanation for how intense everything feels.

You know someone is trying to call you. Someone who can’t take no for an answer. You turn and grope for your phone, succeeding in knocking it off the coffee table to clatter and grow louder.

Eyes half lidded, glasses completely MIA, you swipe without reading.

“What.”

“Congratulations. You missed another appointment with your therapist. Remind me again why you don’t just give them your phone number. The receptionist is an ostentatious twat waffle ala mode at best, but she’s not exactly a threatening authority figure. Were you sleeping?”

He’s been a friend since high school, but you’re not sure why. Maybe you both hate yourselves so much that you have nothing to lose by letting each other in. Too self-absorbed to give a shit enough to try and make new friends. Familiarity is comforting.

“Sollux. I can hear you breathing. You know you’re not ignoring me. Can you keep track of your own appointments for once, or am I going to be reminding you for the rest of your natural life. I’d like to know now so I can prepare recordings in advance.”

“I appreciate your sense of human decency,” you hear your mouth tell him. “It’s damn near admirable. You should get an award.”

He snorts into his mouthpiece and carries on. “Stay up too late watching animated panty shots and wrangling the one-eyed snake again?”

You have to sit up to make your face work properly. There is some kind of magnetic force pressing the sides of your skull together. By your most educated estimate have about an hour before you pop like a tick.

“Your mother was kind enough to keep me company, actually. We played strip Yahtzee and made sweet love on the bathroom tile.”

“Did you actually just pull out a mom joke?” He scoffs in your ear. You can almost feel his breath. “Not only am I disturbed, I am mildly offended by the lackluster attempt. Six out of ten. You could do better.”

“Sorry for disappointing you, pop. I’ll do better next time.”

You’re shuffling unsteadily, the wall trying to hip-check you on your way to the bathroom. It catches your elbow instead.

“All Freudian weird shit aside, are you in any immediate danger? Because this is the third appointment you’ve skipped and from what I can recall, this pattern has led to questionable behaviors in the past. You’re not naked in a park somewhere are you? I don’t want to have to call your dad. The guy gives me the creeps and he usually has your brother answering the phone these days. Have you even talked to them lately?”

While reaching into the medicine cabinet for the plastic pillbox, “Define lately.”

“You probably don’t even know what month it is. Why am I even asking you. Your life is in utter fucking shambles. It’s almost beautiful. It’s June, by the way. June eighth.”

Is it really June already? You have to double check the date on the phone. Swallow down the lithium and company, drink a full glass of water and press the phone hot against your ear.

“Well shit. Two days until the anniversary of my life.”

“You had no idea it was even June, did you.”

“Not the slightest.”

“I have no idea how you have managed not to die living alone. How do you get anything done. Don’t answer that. When’s the last time you went out? I think we should hang for your birthday. Have some fun. Get you laid or something.”

The person staring in the mirror needs to shave. He makes a face and you make one right back.

“That’s probably a terrible idea.”

“It’s not a terrible idea.”

“There are several major flaws with your idea.” Turn on the tap. Pick up the disposable razor. Angle of the face. “One. You hate people. Two. I hate people. Three. Literally no one wants to have sex with me; I look the lovechild of Seth Rogan and Bjork. Four. I think I’m coming down with something.”

With his silence before a sigh, it’s clear that he’s tired of this conversation. You nick a pimple on your chin and swear.

“The first three of those things are probably true, but you’re not coming down with anything, and you’re not getting out of this. You need this.”

You rinse your face, kindly don’t point out the fact that he’s projecting, instead offering a comment about your medication lowering your sex drive, which he doesn’t buy for a second.

“You are so full of shit that it’s a wonder you aren’t dying of fecal impaction. Three fourths of your body is composed of turd right now. You know as well as I do that you want to get some as much as anybody else. Unless you’re still doing that thing where you’re mooning over Aradia.”

“I’m not mooning. We’re just friends.”

“You’re mooning. It’s been. What. Six months? When’s the last time you and her got horizontal for more than cuddling? You have to let her go and move on. There are plenty of lonely human beings for you to latch yourself onto. And they’re all probably into the stoner comedian meets erratic Icelandic pop star type.”

All you can offer is a noncommittal noise. Your ears are still ringing and now you’re thinking about her sleeping with someone else. Someone else who is figuring out where she likes to feel pressure and—

“Karkat, would you fuck me.” You don’t know where the words come from.

There’s a deafening silence on his end of the line for a longer than comfortable interval.

“I’m going to pretend that that question didn’t just happen,” he says after a while.

You keep looking at the guy in the mirror, trying to make him look sexier and failing miserably. “Hypothetically. If you didn’t know me. If you had no idea I was a literal freak of nature.”

“This conversation has taken a weird turn and I’m not exactly comfortable with continuing the interrogation.”

“It’s not weird. It’s a legitimate question.”

You’re not sure if you’re imagining his flustered tone, but you can’t help but smirk at how uncomfortable he is.

“You don’t just ask your bro if he’d have sex with you,” he says. “That’s not a thing bros do.”

“You’re overthinking this. Which is leading me to the assumption that you would, in fact, fuck me, and that you are trying to not think about something you’ve suppressed for literal years.”

He sighs. He’s probably scowling. “You’re not hideous. Let’s leave it at that. Moving on. There’s a club that just opened on the south side of town. They play that shitty EDM that you like unironically. I know the guy who owns it, and he’s mentioned he can get me in no cover, no line. You in or not?”

You don’t exactly have a good reason to say no.

*

Your birthday has been ruined every year since you turned seven, when your mother hung herself in the kitchen. She didn’t die or anything, but everyone sort of forgot about celebrating your special day when there was a much bigger crisis on hand.

When you were eight, you had chicken pox and had to cancel your birthday party at Chuck E Cheese.

When you were nine, your brother had gotten in the middle of a confrontation between his friends that resulted in him spending three months in the hospital.

When you were ten, your dad just straight up forgot, and did for every subsequent year.

You don’t blame him, he’s been worn thin since before you came into the world. At least he doesn’t drink or do drugs or anything drastic to cope with nerves. Just attends group therapy for managing his life and goes to church (something you still don’t understand, but whatever).

And takes care of your brain-damaged brother full-time.

Though, he can take care of himself for the most part, your brother. The seizures are the only reason he stays at home with your dad as far as you can tell.

(That and you’re pretty sure your dad needs him there for a purpose in life, but that hypothesis is private and without closure).

Your worst birthday to date, though, was the one you spent getting your stomach pumped. It was your twenty-first birthday and you hadn’t considered the effects of alcohol on your brain chemistry when combined with your medication. Especially when you intake more than four times the legal limit. Karkat still thinks that you knew full well what you were trying to do. He’s probably right.

He’s chittering beside you as you two walk down the sidewalk towards the loudest building on the block, going on about some movie or another. You’ve been zoning in and out since he picked you up. You don’t know what time it is or how long it’s been since you ate last.

You feel like you’re walking through pudding.

“You’re not even on this planet are you?”

A few beats pass. It takes a moment and finally you realize he’s talking to you.

“I’m floating somewhere around Venus, I think.”

“Drag your ass back to Earth so we can get this over with.”

He squeezes your shoulder and corrects your path into Orbit.

You wonder if the club is going to have to answer to a trademark infringement suit care of the chewing gum company.

Sound clocks you good in the chest. The ear. The pelvis. The lights aren’t as spectacular as some of the raves you’ve been to, but they vibrate enough to give the illusion of strobe. You stare directly at the light machine rigged on the ceiling and get elbowed.

“Come here.”

You’re directed by the shirt this time, Karkat pulling you past the flesh sacks, parting them with ease, knocking you into several people. You watch him awkwardly order drinks at the bar, feeling the eyes of at least three people on you.

The bartender, who’s bored. A girl sipping a cocktail with a look of pity. Another girl you vaguely recognize from work.

You can’t do this.

“Shut up. It’s your birthday. Take this.”

You do two rounds of birthday cake vodka. It tastes like rotten yogurt.

“You look like rotten yogurt.”

You feel like rotten yogurt.

Karkat presses another glass in your hand, saying something at a too-low volume. You watch his mouth move without comprehending anything he could possibly be saying. There’s a tone in the song playing that keeps turning your conscious thought to static.

You drink whatever you’re holding and tell Karkat you want to go home.

He pulls you out to the middle of the crowd instead.

There’s something about clubs like this that remind you of your dad’s bees. The vibe of the crowd that creates a solitary mass of being. There aren’t individuals here. People don’t go to a club to stand out. They go to belong. To feel like part of something bigger than themselves.

You’re not nearly as drunk as you should be to black out and let your body take control.

You can’t get into the feel of the hive. You keep seeing everyone enjoying themselves, but you’re not part of the experience. You’re a solitary bee among the ranks. You know very fucking well you do not belong here and can’t seem to forget.

The song playing is trying to make a migraine resurface, but the alcohol is preventing you from feeling much in the physical sense. You glare at the DJ’s stand in the back of the club, even if you can’t see the man behind the beats. He knows what he’s doing, you bet. Just trying to drive out everyone who doesn’t belong.

Joke’s on him. You’ve been practicing blending into society since the day you were born.

Karkat’s gone when you try to talk to him about the DJ.

You immediately think to panic.

He’s your fellow solitary bee. You can’t lose him amongst this myriad. You require each other for survival. How are you supposed to—

There’s a hand on your waist.

You turn to say something to Karkat, and find yourself chest to chest with one hell of a drone instead.

He yells something you don’t understand. Your pelvises grind and you’re thrust into synchronization of sound, touch, and taste.

*

Waking up mid-fuck is an interesting experience. You know you were conscious the entire time. There’s no way you wound up in the backseat of anyone’s car getting reamed unless you’d made some indication you were interested.

I wish you could control when you came back into yourself, because you think you’d like to have been present a little before this part.

You can count on one hand the number of times you’ve taken it up the ass. It’s never been wholly pleasant, but you’re not finding any flaw in this time, other than the fact that you didn’t plan ahead on this. You keep hearing wet moans before you attribute them to yourself. The push and pull burns, but you just can’t stop begging to be shredded apart. To be ruined. To break.

*

“I’m implanting a microchip in your ass, I swear to god.”

Karkat sits beside you on the curb. He holds his head. You stare at your sneakers.

“Where did you go?”

You tell him you don’t know. Your voice is raw.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Were you with somebody?”

You don’t know.

“Are you just saying that because you don’t want to talk about it?”

You.

Don’t.

Know.

He sighs, scratches the back of his neck. Sits back up.

“Did you have fun at least.”

You don’t think so.

“No?”

You shake your head. Everything running through your brain is sluggish. The world is in complete slow motion. Nothing feels real. Putting that into words is difficult, so you settle for saying nothing except,

“Can you take me home?”

*

You haven’t called her in three months, but her voice sounds exactly the same. You don’t know why you thought it might have changed.

“Hello there, stranger.” you can hear her smile, find yourself almost smiling back. She has the most beautiful and infectious smile. It could move the dead.

You ask how she is.

“I’m relatively well for four in the morning.” She yawns and you feel her closer, as though she never left. “How are you?”

You say that you think you’re drunk.

“That’s an interesting development. Did you get my birthday card?”

She sent you a card. You almost drop the phone to rifle through the mail. You find the bright red envelope and carefully give yourself a papercut while trying to open it.

It’s soft yellow cardstock, all the writing in her hand.

You have made it another year without a personalized corpse party.

I’m so proud of you! :D

<3—AA

You want to tell her you love her.

“Did you go out or get drunk alone?”

You tell her you don’t know. You’re not sure if it’s a lie.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” There’s something in her tone that signals that she knows you know she doesn’t believe you for a second.

“Karkat tried to take me to a club.” And you zoned so hard you ended up fucking some stranger.

She hums. “Sounds like a loaded night. Did you have fun?”

You tell her again that you don’t know, which is the truth.

“You aren’t sick are you? How much did you have to drink?”

You say that you’re fine. “I miss you.”

Those words fell on their own accord. You want to take them back.

“I miss you, too. I tried messaging you a while back, but you never replied.”

Your gut sinks, but you can’t say anything. You can’t say anything or the flood will kill everyone.

“Have you been taking care of yourself? I’ve been kind of worried about you.”

Your tongue has glued itself to the roof of your mouth.

“I’m sorry for what I said before. I should’ve been easier with you. I know it had to be hard to take in. It was hard for me, too.”

The bathroom tile is cold on your face. You leave the phone beside your cheek. Existing is starting to ache.

“Sollux are you there?”

“Yes.” Your voice feels far from your body.

“Good. Keep being there.” There’s a pause on her end of the line. You listen to see if you can hear her breathing. Hear her heart beating.

You ask her if she loves you.

She sighs.

You apologize.

“Yes,” she says finally, sounding just as tired as when she ripped the life out of your chest. “But I can’t fix you.”

*

“Would you fuck me?”

You stare at Karkat, mouth full of rice. Where the hell did that come from?

“Hypothetically,” he adds.

You don’t have the energy to lie to him. “No.”

He huffs. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“You’re not my type, sorry.” you look back into your carton of food.

“That’s right. You like your dudes to hyper-masculine and have little regard for personal boundaries.” He sounds bitter. It’s perplexing. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror, by the way. Because you’re banged up. I swear, I take my eyes off of you for once second and you’re in the backseat of somebody’s car. Did you consent to that?”

He’s draining what little energy you have. You don’t humor him with an answer.

“I’m asking you because I care about you. You’re my best friend.”

“I’m fine. Do you wanna watch Reservoir Dogs?”

“Like hell you’re fine. You’ve been useless since Aradia dumped you. Did you at least have fun last night? Was it helpful at all?”

You change channels on the TV, not answering.

After the opening of the movie, he says, “I’d fuck you.” He sees your face and clears his throat. “You asked the other day. I’m offering you a sense of closure.”

You try again to picture Karkat sexually, coming up with next to nothing.

“Is that all you’re offering?” you ask. You’re mostly kidding. You think.

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at the screen.

You can’t get into the movie. You run over the bits of the conversation with Aradia that you remember, rubbing your temples.

“Do you think I’m broken?”

Karkat gives you a good side-eye. “Is that a serious question?”

“Depends. Was you inquiring about whether or not I jerk off to you a serious question?”

There’s a long pause where the tension in the air shifts, and he falls into silence.

*

There’s something amazing about the perseverance of the world. Terrible things are happening constantly. Mass extinctions. Climate changes. Species destroying the land it dwells. But in the end, it doesn’t do anything on a grander scale.

When humans are eliminated, the earth will replenish. There is death, and then there is life to replace what is lost. Such is the way of the world. The circle of life and all of that.

You should be able to replace people in your life as easy as nature does. You don’t understand why laws of reason don’t like to apply themselves to you.

Today, you’re feeling more positive than usual.

It’s probably a manic swing, but fuck. You feel pretty good. Like you can accomplish anything. Like you can be the hero at the end of a Disney movie who gets the girl and lives happily ever after.

On impulse, you decide you want a pet. You want to prove to everyone that you can take care of something.

The pet store smells like ammonia and wood shavings. You wander around for a solid half hour, weighing the pros and cons of every creature you come across. You can’t do cats or dogs because of allergies. Reptiles aren’t your thing. Rodents have too much upkeep. You’re not interested in a pet tarantula.

“Do you need help finding anything?”

She’s soft around the edges and very friendly. She works here and probably knows what would be best for a person like you.

“I need a pet.”

Her nametag is obscured from view, and you want to know her name. She giggles.

“Well, a pet store is a great start. Are you looking for a dog? A cat? A bird?”

You look her dead in the face and give a profound answer of, “Uh.”

The girl ties her hair back, hands on her hips. You want to know her name, and you want to know why she’s smiling at you.

“Low maintenance pet?”

You nod.

“Hm. Do you like turtles?”

You have never considered the possibility. You tell her such.

“Well, they aren’t exactly very fun pets, and personally I’d rather keep a stupider animal in captivity. Makes me feel less sad.” She gestures for you to follow, and you are soon faced with a wall of fish tanks.

You silently watch the fish swim.

“When do they need to be fed?”

She looks at you like you have sprouted a third arm. “What?”

You repeat yourself, not sure why the question has her thrown.

“Have you never had a fish before?”

“Is that not a common thing?”

She giggles again. You feel the corner of your mouth twitch.

*

The therapist you’ve been seeing for nine years tells you that six months without a session is something that could’ve gotten your ass landed in the hospital.

She repeats this after you tell her of everything that has been happening.

*

Feferi tastes like sunshine feels on a cool day.

You want to live in the shape of her mouth.

*

Aradia says she’s proud of you for making an effort.

You thank her for making you want to die.

*

Karkat moves in to keep you stable when you start slipping.

You tell him he’s the best friend you’ve ever had, and you mean it.

*

You always expect dying to be warm. Every attempt, you rehearse ahead of time how everything happens. How the organs will shut down. The feeling of passing out due to blood loss or chemical intervention. There’s always the line you haven’t crossed. The part where everything is over. You try to anticipate a warmth. The cliché of seeing a bright light. Of letting your life flash before your eyes.

There’s always an interruption.

The taste of activated charcoal.

The intense burn of oxygen.

The sting of antiseptic to any open wounds or burns.

*

Hospital stays have become so routine that the orderlies roll their eyes and give a less-than-cheerful “Look who’s back. Must be that time of year.”

You spend four days bouncing in and out of a sedated haze.

*

Karkat drives you home post-release.

He tells you that you lost your job. That he cleaned the apartment while you were gone. That you should call your girlfriend. And your girl friend. And the delivery boy probably deserves an apology, since you answered the door to drop like a rock at his feet.

You’re too exhausted to say anything.

“It took a lot of convincing to get your dad to let you stay here. He wants you to move back home.”

There’s a piece of tint peeling on the window.

“You know, you can talk to me. If you need somebody to talk to. You don’t have to take drastic measures.”

You want your mouth to move, but for once it remains sealed. It’s not like that. You’re well aware you have options. He should know that you know you have a full support system. That you have no worldly reason to keep trying to off yourself.

“I picked up your prescriptions. Washed all the laundry. Put food in the fridge.”

He wants to take care of you, and you don’t understand.

“I’ll make you dinner if you want.”

It makes no sense.

“Are you hungry?”

Why.

“…Sollux?”

*

He has soft hands. That’s a weird thing to think about your best friend, you think. He runs his fingers in your hair while Jason Segal is trying to forget about Sarah Marshall in the background. His voice is quiet, but persistent.

“…told me to tell you that Mituna’s getting married. Which I, frankly, find shocking. Fun fact. You’re going to be distantly related to Terezi now. Her aunt has a thing for guys with brain damage, I guess. Congratulations on the addition to your family. I hope they don’t procreate. Not because I don’t think people with disabilities shouldn’t have children, but I dunno. He doesn’t really reek of parental responsibility. You should really call your dad, speaking of. I think he thinks I’m enabling your bullshittery. You know he never really liked me.”

The words don’t quite make sense, but hearing him talk at a normal volume, rather than the usual projection is refreshing. Your eyes are too heavy to try and open them.

He sighs, continuing to pet your scalp. It feels pretty good.

“Russell Brand makes this movie.”

You would agree if your trachea wasn’t stuffed with cotton.

“I wish you would just talk to me. Let me help you. You’re so moronic. And stubborn. You’re my best friend. Why do you shut me out. Do I have to get into your pants to get it through to you that I give a fuck? Because you seem to be fine with spending time with whoever you’re banging a lot more than you like to chill with me. I just…”

His voice trails off. All you can do is keep breathing. His arms shift around you and squeeze. Your face presses into his chest. He smells like your soap. Your laundry detergent. Familiar. Comforting.

“Why do you have to be so stupid,” he whispers.

His hands frame your face, his forehead rests on yours.

You don’t open your eyes. You just let yourself feel.

*

Your dreams consist almost exclusively of drowning when you remember them. Sucking in water and feeling your limbs weighed down until you’re staring up at everyone you care about from below. Usually you’re watching them from behind glass. A freak on display. A fish in the aquarium.

The water clouds with red around you.

There’s a hole gaping in your chest. You claw at it, only succeeding in making it tear open bigger.

The dead eyes of everyone you love stare at you overhead. You can feel your throat making noise but they can’t hear you. You try to reach into your mouth and pull out what’s stopping you from making noise.

You pull out your teeth instead.

*

Karkat is holding your face when you surface. He wipes the sweat from your forehead.

“I need to feed the fish,” you tell him.

“It’s three in the morning,” he says gently. “The only thing you need to do is get your ass back to sleep.”

“Did you feed my fish? Feferi is gonna kill me if I kill the fish. If I can’t take care of the fish, I can’t take care of anything. I can’t even keep a stupid fish alive. I killed the fish didn’t I.”

“Sollux. The fish are—”

You have to check. You turn over, try to roll out of bed, but he catches your arm.

“The fish are okay. I fed them this morning. Lie down before I make you.”

You do what you can to shrug him off, but he’s stronger than you remember him being. You twist your arm. You need to make sure you haven’t failed the fish.

He pins you to the mattress, expression unreadable.

“Let me go.”

“You need to try to sleep.”

“I’m not tired. I need to check on the—“

“You need. To go. To sleep.”

You want to fight him, want to kick him off, want to tell him he can fuck himself, but he sits on your waist. Sinks to hug you instead of hold you back.

He says something to the effect of, “Stubborn cocksucker. Just fuckin’ trust me.”

You hug him back.

*

“I came to say goodbye.”

Feferi fiddles with her hair, standing in the hallway. You haven’t been paying much attention to her since getting out of the hospital. You never told her where you had been, but Karkat probably took care of that like he’s been taking care of everything.

You ask where she’s going.

“Back to school. I told you I study upstate, remember?”

You don’t know why, but you don’t feel any upset. You say that you remember, even though you don’t.

“Yeah. Eridan drove down to pick me up. I told you about him, right? He was my best friend in high school. He lives up there. I come down to visit my family. It’s kind of complicated.”

She keeps talking and you start zoning, looking at her neck, her hands, the way she keeps twisting her hair. Should you feel bad that she’s leaving? Why do you feel relieved? One less person to disappoint?

After a break in conversation, you tell her you’ll miss her.

She’s fidgeting on her feet.

“Can you promise to message me sometime?”

You lie through your teeth and tell her you’ll do your best.

“That’s good enough for me.”

She leans up on her toes to peck your lips, offers a wave, and leaves.

The world is moving in slow motion again.

*

“You didn’t take your medication yesterday.”

It’s an observation, not an accusation. You’re playing the game of platonic comfort again. Spooning on the couch isn’t weird. Letting him play with your hair takes you back to childhood when your mom did the same thing when either of you were mid-meltdown. You’re watching reruns of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. He hasn’t laughed once.

“Was it on purpose?”

You tell him you forgot.

“Don’t lie to me.” He pauses his hand.

“I’m not lying.”

Petting resumes. “Can you talk it out with me?”

“Talk what out?”

“Tell me where it’s been coming from.”

“You’re not making sense.”

Karkat curls a lock of your hair. “Start with Aradia and catch me up.”

You ask if you can just watch TV.

His hand drops from the top of your head and his arm rests around your waist. The dynamic takes a shift. The light calm turns to your guts turning and twisting.

“Please?”

You can’t help from tensing. “You know what happened.”

“I know what she told everyone. But you’ve never talked about it.”

You don’t want to talk about it. It’s not exactly the highlight of your life. As your best friend, he should know this.

“We all know you didn’t mean it.”

The problem with the entire situation is that the only witness was her.

“It might help you to talk about it. Maybe you’ll feel a little better if you can open up about it.”

You remember walking out to the bluffs with her on a Saturday afternoon.

“I mean, no pressure or anything, you don’t have to talk about it, I guess.”

And waking up Sunday morning in the hospital with your therapist and your dad both trying to pull you out of a fit of hysterics.

“We can just. Chill here and watch Will Smith cut it up instead.”

Aradia told you on Tuesday, after she was cleared to leave the hospital herself, that you’d told her you were going to kill her.

“Do you ever wonder why sitcoms let the main actor use their real names?”

She refused to tell the police, covered your ass, and said you were violently mentally ill and that she had hit her head trying to stop you from killing yourself.

“Maybe it’s so they can feel more attached to their character. What do you think?”

She broke up with you that day. She said she wasn’t scared of you hurting her. That she was scared of being responsible for you hurting yourself.

“Oh man, what if they actually end up identifying more with their character than themselves? Some sort of depersonalization?”

You sit up, disregarding Karkat’s arm.

He asks what’s wrong.

“I’m going to bed,” you tell him.

*

You wish you could tap into where you go when dissociation rears. Pull yourself back out when you go. It would solve so many issues. You might be able to keep a job. A relationship. Lead a manageable life. Maybe even have a shot at being happy.

Your therapist asks you how many times you’ve been losing time in the past week.

You tell her you drop off the face of the earth at least once a day.

She asks if you need to try out medications.

You tell her you don’t even want to be on the medications you’re currently taking. Is there another alternative.

She asks if you’ve ever considered hypnosis.

*

“Mituna’s getting married in three weeks.”

You’re not surprised by the news, but don’t remember where you know this information. You offer your dad a shrug.

He is adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “Are you planning on attending the wedding?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you’re slightly miffed that he would suggest as much.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how far in advance you plan your stunts.”

Here you go. The implication that you actually enjoy taking his undying attention away from him and his most favorite son by making half-assed suicide attempts.

You don’t say anything, just drink the provided coffee and ask if your brother’s around.

“He’s out with Latula. Why, you don’t enjoy our bonding time?”

You ignore the offhand comment again. He’s looking to hit a nerve. You don’t have the energy to indulge.

“I told Karkat that you’d probably do best coming home for a while. Are you interested in the offer? He doesn’t exactly know how to handle you very well.”

“I just wanted to see Mituna. How long will he be gone?”

He puts down his own cup of coffee on the kitchen counter. Adjusts it accordingly to line up with the pattern it rests on. “He moved in with her last week. Maybe you should call him sometime.”

*

“Lickity fuckin’ banana split! Tula! Sollux’s on the voicebox!”

*

The fog keeping your consciousness glazed over has to be a result of the cocktail of medications you’ve been circulating through your brain chemistry since you were twelve. Other than brief stint pre-institutionalization, you have been medicated continuously for literally half of your life.

Who’s to say that the reason you stay sick in the head isn’t due in part to that?

You were born into the reign of Big Pharma, raised to be the poster child of overmedicated American youth. If there was a pill for it, your father was all for it. If it’s medicine, it can’t hurt you, right? If there’s something wrong with you, take a pill and cure it.

What if there isn’t anything wrong with you at all.

What if your symptoms being treated are perpetuated by clashing medications.

What if you’re just addicted to the substances and the withdrawal is what causes your breaks.

You throw this theory to Karkat over breakfast one morning.

“I’m not going to lie. You’ve said some pretty stupid shit before, but this takes the cake. No. This ransacks the bakery. Steals every baked good in a thirty mile radius.”

His face contorts when you propose complete detox.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“This could be what I need.”

“Yeah, and what if it’s not? What if you end up having seizures and shitting your pants for a week and find out you’re not okay after all?”

Eyes on his mouth, his brow, to his eyes. “Then I’m no worse off.”

For a minute, he is quiet. He shakes his head.

“So you want me to sit and watch you lose your fucking mind for however long it takes for you to test your hypothesis?”

*

Things are normal to start. Twenty four hours after a missed dose is about as long as you usually go before you get yourself back on track. You don’t hurt much more initially.

*

Thirty-six hours is where the screaming tries to worm its way back into your field of sound. The headaches make you so sick that you can’t eat or drink.

*

At forty-eight hours, you can feel Karkat clinging to you as your skin crawls, hear him shushing the sounds streaming from your mouth.

*

For the first time in a while, you haven’t drowned. You’re clinging to the surface by holding onto your savior. Shuddering as their form envelops you. Whispering encouragement. Feeling deep in the darkest parts of you that you have finally won something.

*

Karkat reminds you that you have an appointment today. Gently rubs your arm. You yawn rather than drag yourself off of the mattress, shift closer to him.

“If you think you’re gonna get away without talking to your shrink after this week you’ve given me, man, you are completely and utterly mistaken.” He nudges you towards the edge of the mattress. “Fuck, I might even need to talk to a therapist. I have video evidence of some of the weird shit you were saying.”

You don’t budge, but your eyes are open. You’re not exhausted in the usual sense. Your body feels hungover something fierce, but your head feels more focused. Maybe it’s a placebo effect. Maybe it’ll go away after a while.

“Do you wanna do something today?”

Karkat balks at the question. He sits up, tilts his head. “I must’ve missed supervising you long enough for them to replace you with a cyborg.”

“Absolutely. And here I trusted you with my life.”

“Do you actually feel any different? Because you look exactly the same to me. If not worse.”

“You sure know how to flatter a gal.”

“Were you serious about going out?”

You move your limbs, sit up straight to pop your back. “What day is it.”

After a moment to locate his phone, “Friday.”

“We should definitely go out. How about that place we went on my birthday?”

“I don’t know if it exists anymore. They got busted for molly last I heard. But I’m sure Strider knows a good place to let loose.”

You look down at your hands. Cross your legs. Thoughts are flowing coherently, if a bit loud. A split second intrusion by the thought of blowing your brains out in the middle of a club, washed away by remembering when Aradia got you into a real rave on the night of your junior prom.

“What kind of weird stuff was I saying?”

“Hm? Oh.” Karkat tosses his phone aside. “Babbled bullshit. Not important. You were straight up sleeping for a while there, though. Almost made me piss my pants twice. You wouldn’t let the fuck go.”

*

Orbit was resurrected as Xenon 21 a few weeks ago, according to Karkat’s scoop. The building is the same, the décor and setup are the same, the DJ is playing the same setlist. The only real difference is name and the lack of strobe in the lights.

Rather than wander separately, you stick together at the bar. Karkat still pays. You ask him what he’s been doing to keep your apartment paid. He says not to worry about it, and you start a tab with a pair of birthday cake shots.

“Still tastes like rotten yogurt.”

“You taste like rotten yogurt.”

*

You work up a good rhythm on the floor. A schedule of drinks and songs. Every time the questionable bespectacled DJ plays a song featuring more than one bass drop, take a shot.

To be honest, you were doomed ten minutes walking in.

*

You don’t know what the last drink is that you had, or when you wound up in the cab, but the world is warm and slow and tastes red.

The cabbie makes too much noise in your direction to get anything going that isn’t heavy breathing and mouth motions.

*

Why is he so soft.

“Strict lotion regiment. Regine. Regime. Whatever the fuck you wanna call that shit.”

You wanna call it perfect. You wanna call him perfect. You wanna call him yours.

He seems to take to this idea, much like the way he takes to stripping you both and disappears under the sheets to reappear panting, wet, and hot.

*

The hangover rings loudest through your head, but also vibrates through your chest. You start to panic that you’re experiencing out of body feelings when you realize this snoring isn’t yours.

It’s just Karkat.

He made himself quiet comfortable at some point through the night, your limbs slotted nicely into each other. Tacky with sweat, among other things.

You close your eyes and focus on breathing until you can will yourself back to sleep.

*

He’s apologizing. Saying how you should probably forget that ever happened. He knows you’re not interested, he says.

You tell him it’s not weird to sleep with your best friend.

“We should probably forget all about what happened. Ignore anything leading up to and involving that.”

Brow raised, pouring yourself out a cup of coffee, “I’m not exactly feeling any shame in it. Are you?”

It’s obvious that things haven’t gone the way he might have wanted, but he resigns into insisting that he’s fine.

“It was a line crossed. Shouldn’t have happened. So let’s forget, burn the bridge, move on.”

“No.”

“Sollux, this isn’t a question. It’s a command from your best friend.”

There’s something sad in his voice and you don’t know what to do with it.

“…I am still your best friend, right?”

You slug him in the shoulder a little harder than necessary as a response. He swears, tosses one back your way around your ear.

“Domestic violence isn’t sexy.”

“I’ll show you sexy.”

You both look at each other with opposing expressions. He fumbles on his words, stuttering.

“I meant. Domestic violence. I’ll show you domestic violence, not—”

“Yeah. I get it. Stop making it weird.” you drain the rest of your coffee. “I can’t believe you were serious about wanting to fuck me on my birthday.”

His face is a most exceptional shade of violet, expression closer to pouting than seething. “I hate you. I should’ve mercy killed you. You’re officially dead to me.”

“I love you, too.”

 


	2. Affairs to Settle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your dreams are no longer exclusive to drowning, but now have the added thrill of falling and trying to grab onto anything and everything that passes by. Down the rabbit hole at warp speed.  
> Someone is always just out of your reach. Sometimes it’s Karkat. Others it’s Aradia. A few times it was your mother, decayed and rotten.  
> *  
> A second installment of shorts, because why not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed added warnings and enjoy.

Never gonna get it, never gonna get it.

Never gonna get it, never gonna get it.

\--

Vomit cakes your hair, matting it to your face and the carpet. Though you might not recall, you just spent the last three days on a bender, not a trace of wits about you as you slurred and stumbled and mumbled. A migraine threatens to wake you completely, but you’re still not quite yourself as the ache penetrates you from cerebellum to sinus.

You remember having a fight with your best friend. Boyfriend. You don’t know what to call him these days, but you know it was nasty.

“You knew this was a terrible idea. You knew it. You’re off of those pills for six weeks and still trying to tell me you’re fine? You were having an in-depth conversation with your sneakers about Donald Trump, Sollux.”

To be completely fair, you’re completely convinced that every presidential candidate is probably the next Hitler, but there’s something about that toupee that gets your temple pulsing like some schizoid Harry Potter wannabe.

You know in your gut that the vast majority of those medicated for brainwrongs are to fatten the wallets of the nation’s medicinal bigwigs, but judging by recent circumstance and the current hot licks of whispers at the base of your spine, you’ve gotta say you might have been wrong to suggest you were included in that majority.

Honestly, since when had that ever happened to you?

Sollux Georg is an outlier and should not be counted.

For some reason, that gets you snickering, despite your current disposal on the floor. You wheeze up the remaining mouthful of puke and sit up enough to get your bearings.

Room upright. That’s a good sign. There’s no mattress on the floor, so this isn’t your apartment. The carpet is blue. A purple plastic dong is sitting on top of a bowl of sour cereal. You think you’re in a sitting room, but there is no furniture to confirm.

You sneeze aggressively.

A black cat saunters to greet you from the next room, sitting before you to curl up where your body had kept an even temperature of the floor. It doesn’t seem to realize your eyes are watering at the idea of all of the dander, blinking slowly at you, flicking its tail.

What a bastard. You glare.

“Frigglish, you butthole, where’s my lipstick?”

That nasally baby voice worms its way from your ear straight to your balls, but you aren’t sure if they’re shriveling in fear, loathing, or anticipation.

Blond wig displaced slightly, makeup streaked down her face, she greets you topless, bending down to look under the entertainment center.

“Mornin’. Can you manage to run the carpet cleaner over your barf so my kitties don’t snack it up?”

You’re slow to process, looking down her ass as she reaches for dust bunnies.

“Oh, and thanks for being so cool about your car last night. We wouldn’t’ve gotten home without you.”

You have no recollection. You try not to let it show, just humming a noncommittal “no worries” and turning to locate something to clean your sick. Roxy rights herself, thinking face affixed, tapping her acrylics on the TV stand. You can feel her eyes shift to your back when you turn away again.

“Have you seen a tube of lipstick anywhere by chance? I got a thing for work in like ten minutes.”

There’s something odd about her that you can’t put your finger on. It’s still making your junk uneasy and you are no closer to finding anything resembling a vacuum. You shake your head in the negative and open the nearest door to find a broom closet. A Dirt Devil attempts to tumble out at you, and lands directly on your toe.

Roxy and Frigglish have a good chuckle.

You growl at the closet and close the door, the ghosts of previous laughter at your expense slicking their way into your inner ear.

“Aight, you know what, I’m gonna just get something real quick for that. You’re hung over as shit.”

Roxy rubs her exposed chest between the pecs and leaves your line of sight. The feline nemesis leaps to a shelf by your shoulder and starts to purr for attention.

Everything here is incorrect.

When did you get here?

“What was that, hun, I didn’t hear ya?”

You need to get in the habit of holding your jaw shut when you think. You sit on the floor again, now facing the bare parlor, empty entertainment center covered in the afterbirth of what was probably a social gathering. Beer bottles. Plates. Cups. Kandi. Candy. That fucking bowl of soggy cereal with the dildo in it still. You feel like you should be well in the fucking know of that story.

Roxy harrumphs from the next room, coming back into your line of sight wearing a too-large lopsided bra and Spanx, running matte black over her lips, now on the hunt for something else.

“Did my boob pop out over there?”

At this point, you realize she’s not really speaking to you. You’re just a spectator. There’s nothing for her to inquire of you. Regardless, you glance around the floor for any stray breasts.  A lump of silicone is acting as a door stopper. That is certainly unusual. You reach for it and hold it up to her. She stuffs it into her kitty cat bra and she is now complete in her underwear.

“Fuck yeeeesss. Now I don’t have to contour. That was almost a crisis. Yer a hero, bucko.”

“My name is Sollux,” your mouth replies stupidly.

She thinks this is hysterical, coming in closer to scoop you up in her arms, kissing your cheek as she giggles. “Without a doubt. Now. If yer stayin’, can you tell Dirk to clean up when he gets here?”

The word Dirk resonates with you for some reason, but you can’t place a face or a last name. It’s like Roxy’s stupid falsetto. The memories created are all lost to your fugue.

Your face must show how lost you are, Roxy’s neatly drawn brow furrowing.

“You alright there, buddy?” Her hands are gentle on your face, lotioned to hell and beyond. She smells like jasmine and clove cigarettes.

For some reason, you blindly press your lips to hers, not a concern of your own vomit.

It all collides back.

Two hot bodies writhing on you, both alike in indignity. Arms around your neck, hands on your hips. Steady grunts, groans, creaks. Tan on yellow on brown and back again. Rocking between two thick thighs and grasping for plastic breasts, your ass getting friction on the hot rod behind you.

Wow, how could you forget this warm pout? That tight grip?

Roxy does actually pull away, not looking too bothered by your breath. She just stretches, smiles, plucks  a dress from another doorway.

“We’d love to have you be a regular. Or I mean. I would. Dirk doesn’t love anything. He’s kind of a maniac with that stuff. But you should come over again anyway, cuz he really likes your butt. He calls you Assmax. Which is kinda dumb, but that’s just his way. If you wanna leave, though, just remember to not let Frigglish loose.”

The cat in question rubs up on your legs, and you sneeze.

*

“Why didn’t you call me, you shitstain?”

He’s upset still. You both sit facing the TV as you eat tacos, you actively avoiding his gaze. The TV has been off for a while.

You didn’t know he’d freak out like he did.

“Oh my God. It’s my job to freak out. You were gone for a week! You were four census designated areas away! How did you not think to call me when your car was stolen? How do you get stolen in your own car?”

But he’s here. Karkat hasn’t left you. He’s sitting beside you and eating low grade beef and cheese rather than being anywhere else. This only minimally terrifies you.

“Sollux.”

The natural reaction at your name is to look at him. Acknowledge that he’s staring directly at you, but you feel so fucking ashamed of yourself for some reason that you can’t look back.

*

When you were a kid, your brother was your best friend. He was cool. Handsome. Intelligent. Basically, he was your hero. He kicked your ass in everything from times tables to reading to skateboarding, but it was an honor to be in his presence.

You remember the accident itself only as a flashbulb of Mituna’s best friend dragging him away from the scene. You were nine. It was your birthday. Your mom was out of the hospital this time for good, everyone hoped.

Her screaming echoes in your head sometimes. It brings tears to your eyes when you associate it with her.

You remember her pulling him into her arms, every noise layered in her cries as he bled on her chest. The ambulance came and your dad wouldn’t let her go with Mituna. She instead cradled you, smearing you sticky and rocking you both, hand in your hair.

The next time you remember seeing your brother, he was drooling on himself, learning how to hold a spoon again. His friend Kurloz sat beside him as a support, urging you to help, not to be afraid.

You’ve never really been able to disassociate your brother with this screaming.

*

Tavros, the trusty delivery boy, is your next door neighbor. He likes to knock on your door to make sure you’re alive.

He says that as a joke, but you can both look at each other and know he’s still kind of terrified of the time you tried to kill yourself a minute before answering the door for your food.

You feel that your relationships have a lot in common with that statement at this point.

*

Your dreams are no longer exclusive to drowning, but now have the added thrill of falling and trying to grab onto anything and everything that passes by. Down the rabbit hole at warp speed.

Someone is always just out of your reach. Sometimes it’s Karkat. Others it’s Aradia. A few times it was your mother, decayed and rotten.

Tonight, you’re looking up at your own face, pleading. Trying to yell to grab your own attention. The other you smiles. Creeps down close enough to grab you by the hair and whisper something instantly forgotten, but the voice so real, faint as it may be, that you’re positive you’re awake until you open your eyes to an empty apartment.

*

“You’re going to kill them.”

“You’re worthless.”

“Haven’t you seen how worried this makes everyone?”

“What kind of asshole misses his retarded brother’s wedding?”

“He who shines, he who shines, he who shines.”

“You’re a pansy.”

“She would’ve lived if she hadn’t had you.”

“You killed her.”

“My lady she wears red; my lover, he’s cold and dead.”

“Don’t you think about the consequences of your actions?”

“Who would cry for you?”

“Worthless.”

“Idiot.”

“Deceiver.”

“Harlot.”

“Liar.”

“She’s screaming so pure.”

“God has abandoned you.”

“You’re a dirty faggot.”

“Hark, the herald angels sing: ‘Glory to the newborn king’.”

“Do you understand?”

“You are to save us.”

“Save me.”

“My baby.”

“Split your eyes open.”

“End it.”

“Eat the barrel.”

“Now.”

“Die.”

“Baby.”

“Sollux.”

“Sollux.”

“Sollux.”

*

If you squeeze your head hard enough, maybe it won’t combust. Your fingernails are joining molecules with your skull at an alarming rate as you lie on the bathroom floor, fetal position. Breath hits your lungs so fast in and out that you’re pretty sure you’re going to get some kind of burn from the exchange of oxygen to carbon dioxide. Your migraine has been ever-present for your entire working memory right now, and you honestly don’t know how to make it stop or what life was like without it. Your scalp feels too hot, too tight, too wet. You keep squeezing as your ears play tricks on you.

She’s screaming bloody murder on top of the throb, but you can’t let your guard down. She can’t be helped. She wasn’t helped. She isn’t real anymore. Nothing more than a urn hidden in your father’s house.

A cacophony arises from the sink, a dull rattling and striking lightning. Your eyes are closed so tight you almost have transcended what is visible for human color in this black nothingness.

The storm continues in the sink. You curl up tighter.

If you could just hit your head hard enough against the floor, it would stop. You could let your head be eased of this pressure. Hitting hard enough at the right angle, you’d be relishing in silence.

A haunting refrain edges the fray of your hearing threshold, also from the sink.

There’s probably something in the drain fucking with you. Some creature living there whose sole purpose is to make you kill yourself.

The monster starts the thunderstorm again. Your head thumps dully on the tile to little avail, fingers tight in your own hair.

Something needs to get out of your body.

You suspect it’s the cousin of the thing in your pipes, but one that haunts and possesses bodies of flesh rather than plumbing. It’s settled in your belly since youth and sprouted through all of your capillaries and now, here you are, fighting for control of the vessel.

The smart thing to do would be to let it win.

Instead you gag. If it’s infected your entire body, it has to have a piece in your esophagus. That would be the easiest part to get a grip of right now. You curl your tongue back in an attempt to trigger your gag reflex, but have a better idea.

Your tongue, of course.

But no.

It’s too attached.

There’s a razor by the sink. Maybe if you can get a little grip, you’ll be able to pull the beast out of your body.

Your hands fall from your head, distracted now at this new task.

You stand, supporting yourself so unsteadily with the counter, staring into the sink, prepared for a contest with the being trapped inside.

The lightning sounds its thunder again, vibrating the sink. Lighting up your phone, jostling it in the basin. You pluck it up, just to turn the sound off, answering the call.

“What?”

“I’m sorry for getting upset with you. It was a dick move to treat you like I did. I should’ve been more considerate of your feelings. I know it’s really hard for you to exist in a general sense, and for me to be an asshat wasn’t really beneficial to you. You’re my best friend. I don’t want to ever make you feel bad. I know you’re probably still pissed off and hate me forever, but I just wanted to apologize to you because I was in the wrong. You know your brain better than I do. I shouldn’t be so quick to tell you that you can’t do the things you think you can do. I think, honestly, that you’re very strong and very intelligent and this got really gay, fuck. Will you just forgive me so I can come back knowing you don’t hate me?”

You tell him there’s something in your throat, but you don’t know why he needs to know that.

Karkat quiets on his end of the line.

You follow up with an assumption that it’s trying to burst out of you like the Kool-Aid man, but given your anatomy it would be shaped more like a tapeworm. A soul possessing tapeworm ready for a big “oh yeah!” when it frees from your shell.

Karkat stays silent.

Spurred on by this, you try to let him know that you’re pretty sure that you aren’t mad at him, it was probably the parasite all along that was making you ill, but if you can just reach in and grab it, you will be better.

“Sollux?”

You can cut away the parts of you that are being possessed or rotted out by it and then you’ll be able to take your form back over, and then you and Karkat can be together without you screwing it up like you always do.

Karkat clears his throat on the line, but doesn’t say anything.

You swallow. You say that you want to be better for him. You ask if he will help you take it out of your body if you got your hands on real surgical steel.

“Sollux. I think that I need to call your dad.”

That’s a terrible idea. You pick up the disposable razor on the counter, trying to figure out how it comes apart.

“Are you home, Sollux?”

You don’t say anything, frowning at the stupid plastic keeping your saving grace trapped.

“Sollux, can you answer me?”

Annoyed, you throw the cheap shit to the tub, mumbling to yourself.

“What?”

You weren’t talking to Karkat. You ask if he thinks the parasite is fungal.

“I don’t. Know? I’m not really an expert on body snatching beings. But uh. Can you do me a favor?”

Time is money, Karkat, there isn’t much time until the whole thing gets into your brain. You’re doing well fighting it off, but you don’t think you can go much longer. It’s the bottom of the ninth.

“Can you wait until we can bring somebody in to uh…biopsy? That way we can be sure there’s a professional handling the matter? Not to negate your experience or expertise or anything, but it’ll probably increase your likelihood of winning the good fight if uh. If you’re being treated properly.”

The asshole in the mirror is smiling at you. The one who taunts you from your nightmares. The creature that’s spreading inside of you. He wears your face, but you don’t think you’re that scary. To throw him off, you take the handle of the toilet plunger and ram it into his face. Glass shatters across his features, distorting him further.

You stab him with the handle of the plunger over and over and over until he stops smiling. He’s fractured into slivers on the counter. You won for now.

*

Your father exercises his power of attorney over you very rarely. For the most part, you’ve always been a mostly-functional adult, but this time, he’s staring very seriously at your forehead. You wonder if he looked at your mom this way when she had an episode. Would explain a lot of things.

“You understand that by going off of that medication, you could’ve died. Right?”

A slow blink is all you can give him. Like Roxy’s cat. Your nose itches.

“Sollux, I don’t want to have to put you in a facility, but you’re making it clearer and clearer to me that you can’t be trusted to care for yourself.”

Facility. Long term in-patient care. He stopped taking you to visit your mom when you were eleven. She died when you were thirteen in a center like that. He wouldn’t bat an eye to dump you and be done. He’s never really liked you much, since you started displaying all the signs.

“Mituna and Latula just got back from their very expensive honeymoon, which I’m sure you don’t even know about, as you didn’t go to the wedding. Or respond to his messages. I don’t have the money to put you up somewhere. When you get discharged, you’re going to be moving back in with me. Your friend Karkat is going to have to find other means.”

You want to tell him that you can’t leave Karkat, but your thoughts are thick. Congealed.

“The doctor advised me that you need a strict routine. No alcohol. No drugs. Minimal contact with outside influence. More sunlight and exercise.”

This feels too familiar. You’ve sat through this speech once before.

“But honestly, Sollux, this is going to be the last straw.”

Backseat of the station wagon after a day trip to pick mom up from the hospital. Mituna asleep on your shoulder.

“I’m not a young man anymore. I can’t handle this sort of stress.”

Your mother bundled in the passenger seat, quiet, vacant.

“You’re either going to focus on getting yourself better or you’re going to live out on the street with the rest of the trash. Understand?”

Her soft nod, eyes unfocused out the window.

“Gem, look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

You frown with your own face, almost feeling your skin crinkle, eyes shifting to your father. Responding from far away with your mouth and a heavy tongue, “I’m not Gem.”

The glassy eyes of your tired father harden. His lip gives a quiver. His face flushes.

“Excuse me?”

You repeat yourself, trying to focus on the patch of hair he missed shaving.

“Sollux. This isn’t funny.”

That’s what he just called you, you’re not making it up. Even if your credibility might be a little lacking these days, you know damn well when it comes to your father the difference between screaming about parasites and when he calls you by your mother’s name.

“You’re sick, Sollux.” His go-to phrase when he’s done listening. It would piss you off if you weren’t numbed out.

You watch him rise from the plastic chair. Push it in. Turn a tidy about-face and excuse himself past a few hospital personnel.

*

Karkat watches you pack your trinkets and clothes, hugging his knees to his chest from your bed. The bed you shared with him for a few months and made some pretty perfect memories. Split food. Opened to each other. Cried. Laughed. Sighed. Your dad won’t let you take your mattress back.

He fidgets with his sleeves. “Do you think he’ll let me stay the night with you sometime?”

A beat as you continue to withdraw your presence from his life, shaking crumbs out of a sweater.

“…Sorry, that was dumb.”

*

One last ride in bed. Karkat clings to your back, arching against you in the hottest display of ecstasy.

You can’t cum. You kiss him as he trembles instead, trying to memorize the taste.

*

“Man, pops is being a cum-guzzling cunt weasel about this shit and you, brother. I got half the minds to blow him.” Mituna aims a convincing imaginary Uzi at a picture of your dad on the wall. “Ratchet-tatas, motherfucker.” He mimes blowing the frame to smithereens, trilling his tongue.

Mituna and Latula aren’t as inseparable as your assumptions led you to believe. And having not talked to your brother much since he met her, you’re actually sort of surprised that he’s more coherent than you are. You sit bundled on the sofa in a blanket in their living room, picking at a seam. Mention that you’re stuck with the ultimatum of curing yourself or being homeless.

A resounding raspberry of disapproval from the peanut gallery. “Oh my taint-cucking Christ, he’s the literal no-bullshit worst. I could probably span seventy trillion years doctor-menting the human centipede of shit he tried to feed the whole baby-humping world about us.”

“Baby-humpers put a coin in the swear jar, sugar nuts!” calls his other half from the spare room.

“Baby-humpers get fifteen to life, twat tart!” he howls over his shoulder, cackling.

You instantly crave Karkat’s banter.

It takes Mituna a second to collect himself, but he does notice that you’re wearing your serious face.

“Little brother, you look like shit. Are you getting your daily dose of vitamin D?”

The look on your face gets him worked up in laughter again.

He wipes his eyes, lowering to a stage whisper, “Don’t worry. I’d be tight as a nun’s ass-holy if I was still at home. But guess what?”

You prompt him, expecting another uproarious outburst.

You’re surprised pleasantly by a pat on the shoulder instead. “Pops fucked us enough to last us until at least next Christmas. Then he’ll find a way to a hundred percentage wreck one of our shitholes and we won’t have to worry ‘bout who’s the cooler brother now will we?”

There’s something weirdly veiled in his speech that makes you a little nauseous.  You’d ask for further clarification, but it doesn’t register as being too important. You sink further into the couch instead.

“Oh, pissdicks, speaking of brothers, brother, I gotta give you the skimpy on all the latest greatest shit that’s ever happening to me in my whole gooky-ass retard life!”

He gets so buzzed that he actually hops out of his armchair to get beside you on the couch. He cups both hands around his mouth and mutters around his vowels to escape botching every word,

“ ‘Tula’s got a bun.”

A what.

He makes a crude peg and hole hand signal, gestures a round belly, smooth transitioning into a cradled arms motion.

He can’t be fucking serious.

But he is. And he does his stupid too-loud laugh with his too-wide grin, slapping you on the leg with a throw-pillow.

“Ain’t that the tightest shit outside of your mom’s ass?!”

*

“Aren’t you happier after visiting your brother?”

Your father’s sweater reminds you of Mister Rogers. He’s cutting up food on a plate at the dinner table. He pushes it towards you, taking the knife back to the kitchen to deposit. You frown at the bite-sized chicken and peas.

“Sollux? Did you enjoy your visit with Mituna?”

He comes back with extra napkins, unfolding one and offering it to you. You stare at his hand a moment before turning to eat. You can feel his eyes along your neck and would bet your life on the expression he’s wearing.

“Well, it made him happy. So we can keep that as part of the routine. Sundays with your brother. He’ll be grateful for the structure, I’m sure.”

Suddenly, the peas are fascinating. You count the dimples on the little irregular spheres before you eat them individually. He’ll stop talking eventually. Hopefully.

“Tomorrow, I have to go to the bank and the post office. You are certainly welcome to accompany me. I’ll probably get lunch out, so I’ve left a few things in the fridge you can fix up. Peanut butter. There should be some celery. Other snack foods if necessary.”

You glance at him in time to see his impatient glance at his wristwatch. Clearly, you’re eating too slowly.

“I’ll allot you a bit of time on the internet tonight, if you’d like. So you can contact your friends or such for a while. Just remember your curfew. I’ll have the WiFi off at exactly eleven.”

A wheezing hiccup bounces from tile to ceiling. Your shoulders shake and your breath stutters.

“I don’t understand what’s so funny, Sollux.”

You just keep on laughing, wiping your eyes and putting down your fork. This isn’t worth being treated like a child. What’s the point?

Ever the straight man, Cyril Captor narrows his eyes, crosses his arms, looks at you like you’re some misbehaving little brat.

“Sollux. Finish eating.”

The plate hits the floor.

*

Sedatives are supposed to make you a little dopey. Calm. Serene. Tranquil. There should be a gentle hum of noise outside of your reality, softened lighting. The plaguing voice interference should wind down to nothingness. You shouldn’t know a goddamn thing going on. You should be swimming.

Not drowning with your eyes half-lidded.

Your body’s caught in the quick sand, being sucked deeper the harder you try to kick and claw your way out. No matter what you do, you’re just as stuck and just as stupid. You feel the bed shift as you roll over, eyelids too heavy to move. Your extremities still feel numb. You’ll probably be lying here quite a while.

What the hell is wrong with you? How have you managed to be hospitalized twice in the span of two weeks? You weren’t even fucking doing anything this time. You were just catching onto your dad’s steaming bullshit. Even with your revelation, you honestly don’t feel all that shocked, thrilled, surprised. Just tired. Karkat’d have rubbed your back and whispered stupid facts about Jennifer Love Hewitt if he were here. You hug yourself.

Maybe this is why mom never came home.

Maybe this is why Mituna lived at home until he was almost thirty.

Maybe this isn’t anything new at all, and you’re finally just realizing how fucked up your home life was.

Your dad never laid a hand on you or your brother. At his worst, he gave a passive aggressive dig and moved the fuck on. Any and all punishment was nonexistent, and you generally were obedient kids. He didn’t really raise his voice except to sound more stern.

You get now why Mituna was insistent that you not tell your dad Latula was pregnant as your visit came to a close. That kid wouldn’t stand a fucking chance of staying in their custody. Your dad would’ve found a way to find them unfit and bring the kid to live with him instead.

God you hope he’s not expecting you to move back home after this incident. That twisted bastard. You’d honestly almost rather take permanent inpatient housing. You can’t keep feeding his weird urge to be a good caregiver anymore. Four days was too long. Your first eighteen years should’ve sufficed.

Fuck your head is starting to throb again. You curl up, not even ready for that shit.

He couldn’t stop your mother, so he gave up and turned to Mituna. Mituna shoved his way free by proposing to Latula without telling your dad, so he jumped at the opportunity to “save your life”.

Christ, why does your life need constant saving anyway. You’re twenty-four. You’re not a child. You’re not even really able to blame your chemical imbalance on hormones anymore. You should be well on your fucking way to stability. Or at least something close.

You had an apartment. You had a car. You had a job that paid real money, even if it was a shitty job. You had a best friend who sacrificed a lot of shit to save and help you.

How did you manage to get that far in the first place?

Aradia. Your legs shift in muscle memory. She cheered you on through high school. Past into college and spat back out again. She kept you on your toes, always trying to catch up.

And then you tried to kill her.

There’s the light sound of knuckles on wood that makes you suddenly fully aware that you’re a lot less sedated. You turn to the door, stretching and rubbing your face. There’s no door, just a black and brown blur. You grope for your glasses and then remember where you are.

“Hey there, Sollux, we’re about to get started in some activities. Care to join in?”

This isn’t your first rodeo, this shit isn’t optional. You swing your legs to be perpendicular to the floor, almost getting caught in your sheets. You’re wearing some ridiculous excuse for a hospital gown, little bears in the fabric. You decide actively to stop caring about them and follow the squat lady to the common area, a few other blurs already seated.

You don’t remember what day it is. Or what month it is. This bothers you.

You’re not the only one wearing this stupid gown, but you are the only one wearing it and your boxers. You sit on a couch and rub your eyes. This is the worst part of the crisis treatment. Mandatory veiled as voluntary interaction.

The girl on the chair across from you looks like she’d rather be sipping on an iced latte, and you agree with that sentiment.

The stout woman who fetched you introduces herself with a joke that you don’t catch. The activity is assigned. You don’t actually pay attention to what it is, but it’s all the same so you don’t ask for clarification.

Starbucks is paired up with you. You’re both handed flashcards.

This is stupid.

“What one of your least beneficial coping skills? How can you change that skill into something helpful?” she prompts from the card, voice gentle.

“Streaking through football stadiums,” your mouth offers. “Easily fixed by wearing faster shoes.”

The lingering fog from the sedative brings out your lisp, and you bite your tongue.

Carmel macchiato stares at you, obviously not in on the game.

“That was my question. You have your own cards.”

You shrug, shaking your head. “Sorry, I thought this was one of those peer things. Not a shitty self-reflection. My bad.”

A pause. She tucks the first card back into the stack and draws another. She looks at you expectantly.

Groan. You finally look at the cards in your hand.

“‘What are three things you are grateful for today?’ Well, I’m grateful for a society that imprisons its youth; can’t have those rascals stealing the future from the old folk who earned it. I’m grateful for Mountain Dew existing, contributing to pivotal moments of my childhood. And I’m grateful for Adblocking.”

After worrying her lip a minute, grande frappichino says that she doesn’t think you’re taking any of this seriously.

You tell her that she’s damn fucking right you’re not; why bother?

“‘What is your greatest strength? Why?’” Her lip curls around the last syllable. She shakes her head, the picture of distress and puts the card back in the stack. She tells you that you’re right, this is stupid.

“Completely. It’s obvious your greatest strength is your intense fucking love for signature smoothies at Jumba Juice, because they’re fucking delicious.”

You watch doubleshot espresso cringe every time you swear, but her features loosen a little. She gestures to your other cards and you flip one over to appease her.

*

During your stay, your dad doesn’t show up once.

*

The therapist you had been in good with for quite a while has officially retired. You’re informed of this by her much younger replacement.

“Your file is a bit hefty,” she remarks, turning the pages slowly. “I suppose it’ll have to be some light lunchtime reading.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but she doesn’t play it up, and you are not about to laugh.

She looks eerily familiar, this Rose Lalonde, MD. You sit in the chair across from her and keep your arms crossed as you try to place her face.

“How about we just have a chat, then?” she suggests, scooting your tome of mental health catastrophe aside.

How about you both just sit here in silence.

Rose Lalonde, MD, shrugs and laces her fingers together in her lap.

It’s quiet for a few beats.

“Aren’t you supposed to be writing my prescription and telling me to beat it?”

Soft, she smiles thin. “Is that how you’re used to sessions being?”

She’s one of those. You ask her what the fuck else it’s supposed to be.

“Well, in a general sense, this is supposed to be a way to help keep you from coming back. Trust me, while you may think my paycheck differs, I assure you, I hate seeing people writhe on the floor and get turned loose on the world ready to get back into old habits.”

The arch of her brows is a little too low. Her lipstick is too dark. You are so confused as to why you can picture yourself getting pegged over her desk. That’s not your usual reaction to women old enough to be your mother.

“Do you get lost in thought frequently, Sollux?”

You say, “What?” and she smiles again.

Standing, Rose Lalonde, MD, leans against her desk, smooths out her skirt. “Do you get lost in thought frequently?”

This seems to be a trick question, but she doesn’t really sound as condescending as she should. You’re starting to question the creditability of her nameplate implying a doctorate. Your shrink was pretty condescending. Every temp shrink you’ve seen while in and out of hospitals has been condescending. Why is she trying to be your friend?

But she’s waiting for an answer from you.

Carefully, you keep your tongue in check and mutter, “You could say that.”

This isn’t the usual mind game. She sucks her teeth, taps her nails on the desk. “Well, what do you wanna do about that?”

What?

“I said, ‘what do you want to do about getting lost in thought’?”

There’s nothing you can do about it, it’s human nature. Everybody stares into space sometimes. You don’t get where she’s coming from.

“Sometimes, keyword. Do you ever feel like your brain checks out for longer than you mean to? Say you’re making something to eat and next you know, you’re cleaning up dinner without remembering eating?”

You try to point out to her that your file has a marked history of dissociation, but she isn’t interested. She’s not interested in reading the file at the moment, she’s interested in reading you. Well that’s all fine and dandy, but you’ve gotten very tired of breaking down your diagnoses over the years for every Tom, Dick, and Harry that walks in the door to dispense pills at you.

She looks up to the ceiling, as though reaching for some insight.

“How many medications are you currently on?”

Six.

Rose Lalonde, MD, says, “Whew. That’s quite a few, there.”

You say you guess?

“Do you notice a difference in yourself if you don’t take medication? I’m sure you’ve tried to experiment in the past.”

A snarky retelling of your two month adventure of weekly disappearing and panicking your…Karkat.

“And did you see a professional at any point in that time?”

Admittedly, no, but you weren’t exactly sure you were doing the right thing, either, and didn’t want to be berated.

Smirking, she sits up on her desk, rather than going back to her chair, crossing her ankles. She draws out her next vowel. “Sooo. You told me a whole lot about your actions, but not a lot about how you felt.”

You tell her it’s kind of obvious how you felt, isn’t it?

“What are you feeling right now, Sollux?”

Ever the asshole, you begin describe the uncomfortable chair you’re in. Roses Lalonde, MD, smiles, and swings her feet a little.

“You know what I mean.”

And you do know what she means, but you’ve never really been good at this verbal expression shit. You cover your eyes with your palms and lean back in your chair to think.

Happiness isn’t anything like what’s gripping you right now, so that’s out. Sadness is more like sniffling at the end of one of Karkat’s chick flicks. Anger is too manic. There go the three basic emotions.

“Tired,” you say, because that one’s at least true.

She nods. You think it’s an encouraging nod, because she isn’t speaking, but words stick in your throat when you try to say anything else at this point.

This feels stupid.

“What feels stupid?”

You don’t know, but you tell her she should save her breath, you’re not even worth it.

Her heels click together. “Do you think it feels stupid because it isn’t providing immediate gratification, or because you don’t think what you’re feeling is valid?”

Both.

With a hum, she leans over to pluck up your file again. Flips to the front flap at your list of medications.

“Who are the supports in your life?”

Your father has power of attorney. That’s who most people care about in terms of support.

“I care about the people who care about you. You don’t seem like you get along very well with your father.”

Because he hindered your brother’s progress into life so he could be a good parent. Because he essentially killed your mother. Because he’s going to trap you in the system for the at least one of your lives. The list is starting to pile up on itself and you find yourself blabbering about the bullshit reason why you’re here this time. Because you were finally fucking onto him. And he couldn’t fucking handle it. He’d much rather report back to his friends in the church that you’re in a bad way again, can everyone take a moment to pray and donate to the poor man whose family succumbed so young to suck violent mental illness. Don’t even get you started on the weird church shit, you don’t understand. You don’t get how in your dad’s mind he’s the savior your family needed. His weird control thing is more concerning than you forgetting how you ended up halfway across the state, if you’re to have an opinion.

You think he gave up on your mother because she told someone that he didn’t love her, and this didn’t fit into his perfect little hero world. Honestly, you wish like fuck he didn’t play the role of widower from the time you last saw your mother until well after her actual death. How long can he milk that?

The answer is a long fucking time, of course. Fifteen or so years and he’s still the poor widower. Still the father of two kids with bent brains. Still getting a check every month signed by the church.

Without Mituna, though, he’s more than happy to turn his sympathy-leeching ways into how ruined you are. How just like your mother you are. How much you wish you looked less like her so it would be less painful.

You honestly look very little like your mother. Mituna’s more her features. You’re just her fire.

Vaguely, you recall last year when the incident with Aradia happened and your father insisted you weren’t fit to care for yourself. That you weren’t capable of managing on your own.

Ever the obedient child, you agreed.

Even though you were holding down a job. And managing your finances for the most part. And able to take care of yourself.

So what if you fucked up by not going to therapy since Aradia? That was your choice. It was something you did because fuck, who the hell wants to look their therapist in the face a week after trying to kill your girlfriend and have them hem and haw that you should be a good boy and eat all nine of your pills.

Being with Karkat helped at first. It wasn’t a complete relief from the nerve-deadening of your medication, but it was enough to make you at least get out of bed.

And honestly, after stopping your meds for so long, you realized that life really wasn’t quite so terrible.

Just that your responses to it are pretty shitty.

And that you really don’t understand why you try to kill yourself, when you’re clearly immortal. What the hell is even so bad in your life right now?

Why are you even so fucked up?

Why can’t you just ignore the screaming, the muttering, the eye-splitting migraines and just deal with it?

Rose lets you get it all out of your system. Pulls over her chair to sit next to you as you gesticulate and postulate and offers her ear. Keeps her lined lips quiet. Nods when appropriate. Offers you a box of tissues, though you don’t remember when your eyes started leaking through all of this.

After you finally quell your outburst, she speaks gently, kindly, “You’re pretty fucked up, yeah.”

It makes you laugh, bitter, biting.

“Lucky you, you don’t seem to like it all too much.” She pats your arm and you don’t know why, but it’s such a comforting little gesture. “So let’s get you on track to kick life in the teeth.”

*

“We should get dinner or something.”

Karkat’s chin lifts from your shoulder to press his face into your neck, arms snug around your chest still. You’re nestled on the couch together, enjoying a bit of silence. He’s been a lot less willing to let you go lately, which is honestly pretty alright with you. This soft intimacy reminds you of Aradia, and you remember how much alike Karkat and she are.

Except Karkat insists you need him. And you think it’s mostly that he needs you.

You’re okay with this, god help you.

His nose is cold on the side of your neck. “Maybe. Wanna order in?”

Careful as ever, you tangle your fingers in his hair to keep him close. Shake your head no. You turn to rest your forehead on his, eyes closed.

His voice is muffled in your skin. “Then what, you wanna put on your frock and dine out like some classy bastards that we aren’t?”

“Actually, if we’re gonna be realistic, you’d totally be wearing the dress, KK.”

“Sollux, we’d both be in dresses. Frills. Bows. It’d be sickening. People would literally vomit at the sight of how fucking cute we are.”

“Ah, the true Lolita: kawaii emetophilia.”

He pinches your nipple and you snort, batting his hand off.

“Seriously, though,” Karkat continues, “do you wanna like. Eat at an actual restaurant?”

“I mean that depends on what’s open at two in the morning.”

Something he does with his two-week stubble in your neck gets you squirming and you suddenly are starving for touch. He’s so much colder than you, why the fuck. You flop dramatically onto him, take the upper hand. Karkat lets out an “oof!” behind you, and you turn over to lie chest to chest, crotch to crotch.

“Denny’s is open, lardass.” He pets your hair out of your face and it just feels so fucking satisfactory, you hum and press your face into his hand. Cupping your cheeks instead, he rolls his eyes. “We can get some shitty pancakes.”

But now with all of this touching, you aren’t ready to eat anything but the sounds Karkat whimpers when you’re both too hot and tacky and one to be bothered with the outside world.

You think you might love him. And the way his stupid mouth hooks a little more on one side than the other. And his worrying. And his soft skin.

Skin on skin, you achieve so much more easily these days. No resistance, only hungry hands, lips, nerves.

And shit, you can’t bear to move from him. You take his hands in your own, kissing at his wrists, nosing your way up his arm. You become very suddenly enamored by his oddly-angled bones. Shit, when the fuck did you get so attracted to this asshole? You suck a hickey on his pulse point, which is probably a lot sexier than it was supposed to be, but shit you can’t complain.

Your gentle kisses trail up his forearm, past the scar teen years, further past the edges of anxious claw marks hidden just barely under the sleeves of his old shirt. Up his soft shoulders and to the neck, marked with a bruise you don’t think he’s seen just yet. Fuck, you could vomit at how beautiful he is, but you can’t, of course. That would ruin your little moment.

The drugs you were on not too long ago always sort of dulled most sensations, including sex. There’s been more than a few times you’ve been getting hot and heavy with your Karkat, only to wind up getting him off as fast as possible.

But holy shit, here you are. In this moment. Cock on his thigh, hands sliding into his sweats as his thick lashes bat for you and you could probably be spent right here and there, but you have to touch him.

You remember your first time with Aradia damn near seven years ago. How she arched like a masterpiece, vulnerable as all hell, smiling from ear to ear the whole time. Something deep in your gut gives a little twist, but fuck, here you’ve got a god among men. His frown for sex is better than the frown for confusion, pain, anger. It’s just as intense as if he were screaming bloody murder along the acoustics of your skull. You writhe against him, trying not to let yourself fall into the haphazard fuck-and-done like you’re prone. As many moments as the two of you will have together, you have to learn to worship the hell out of the best thing in your life.

God, you almost start to think you love him again.

Karkat fits so neatly between you and the couch, gripping your thighs as you slide his quickly-prepped peg into your slot.

Holy fuck, you should let him inside you more often.

You’re tasting his sounds and feeling his colors and hearing his scents on ever layer of your soul. Holding his hands, straddling his hips, and trying to get your mack on all at once is a tedious and dangerous task, but you’re definitely up for putting your life on the line to keep the kinetics and echoes going and—

“Shit, _fuck_ , okay, Sollux. Ease up before I nut like a teenager touching his first real life breast.”

Everything winds down, even though you snicker at how red his face is and how his voice cracks as he huffs. Karkat eventually sits up enough to put you under him and there’s a lot more stupid mouth connection as you both get warmer and hotter and burn harder.

It’s hardly beautiful, but it’s at least a start of something better than quickies with your ~~best friend~~ Karkat. Let’s be real, this fucker isn’t leaving anytime soon. Him and his dumb gravelly voice hitching and his soft skin bruising under your grip and his hold on you like you’re the only thing that could possibly fucking matter to him. You’re familiar with it. It’s the same feeling you get in your gut when he runs his fingers through your hair and drives his—

“ _Fuck_ ,” you groan through your teeth, nails digging into arms harder than you really mean to.

“Good fuck or bad fuck?”

You’ve never had a bad fuck with him. Also you are well aware you’re hilarious, no need for him to thank you for your contributions to society.

Karkat actually pauses his pointed thrusting to stare at your face, dangerous scowl full force. “I fucking hate you.”

“I love you, too.”


End file.
